


Filmabend

by AmputeeTrainee



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Choking, Drunkenness, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Millennium | Letze Battallion, Mind Manipulation, Movie Night, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 19:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13818051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmputeeTrainee/pseuds/AmputeeTrainee
Summary: Watching films together had become somewhat of a routine for them. | Anon request. The Major calls The Doktor in for a movie night and things progress from there.





	Filmabend

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is in response to an anon request I received on Tumblr. I tried to make it fun while still keeping everyone horrible. Enjoy. :)

 

A cool touch brushed his side, and suddenly Dok found himself in the Major’s suite. The large white room spread out before him opulently decorated but cold and dimly lit. The Major’s room was tucked behind the main observatory deck and served as the largest personal quarters aboard the zeppelin.

The entrance led to a living room illuminated by flickering light. A cluster of large monitors covered the right-hand wall from floor to ceiling and looked out of place among the classical decor. The room was furnished with a white leather couch, carved marble coffee table, and a gilded, well-stocked bar cart. The rows of screens were the only source of light. White brocade curtains in the back blotted out any sunlight that might have streamed through the windows, as the seated man to whom the room belonged disliked the glare across the screens.

On the far arm of the couch reclined the short, round silhouette of the Major. In one hand the man held a full champagne flute and beckoned lazily with the other for him to join. A half smile lifted Dok’s lips. He walked into the room and sat beside his commander. Accepting the champagne, he crossed his legs and got comfortable. Watching films together had become somewhat of a routine for them.

Before Millennium and the rest of their Wehrmacht comrades had gone into hiding in South America, face-to-face meetings between him and the Major had been infrequent and often strictly professional. After the setback at the laboratory in Warsaw and the Major’s near death in Stalingrad in 1944, their base of operations had to be whisked overseas and into the wilds of Brazil. It was there, putting the man through countless, experimental operations meant to fix him, that the Doktor ironically saw his commander’s human side while replacing his flesh with steel, servos, electrodes, and circuits.

The Doktor learned of the Major’s love of film while hovering anxiously by his superior’s bedside as the man recuperated. Major’s obsession with warfare had driven him to collect every war movie, propaganda film, and military testing footage he could get his meaty hands on. While healing, the Major poured over his collection fitfully. The little man rarely slept anymore and craved something to preoccupy his restless mind. The Major’s body just kept running like a well-tuned clock; a side effect from the mechanical additions meant to fix him.

Healed and fully operational years later, the Major still sometimes requested his company one on one, not as his chief medical officer but as someone who understood his passion for warfare. In these moments their titles fell away. Herr Major became Max. He became just Dok. Avondale was reserved for when the man wanted to poke fun at him; saying the alias he’d chosen for their new life in South America was too flamboyant, and ergo, perfectly suited for him.

Today, they were watching a collection of stolen weapons testing footage which was in steady supply thanks to the Cold War. Despite the talk of a nuclear test ban treaty, the two current superpowers churned out enough footage and audio recordings for their spy network to deliver. The grandiose Tsar Bomb was Max’s favorite. Of course, it was, Dok quipped over the rim of his champagne glass, always compensating. The remark earned him a sneer and an elbow to the ribs. Only he was allowed to poke fun at Max in private.

Draining his drink, Dok remembered he hadn’t eaten today as the carbonation caused the alcohol to go right to his head; the reason for his loosened tongue. Max refilled both glasses. The conversation turned from mocking the current geopolitical pissing contest that was unfolding across the world stage, to laughing at their soldiers. The base had an extensive surveillance system that monitored all activities on board. With the flick of a remote from Max’s pocket, new feeds played across the screens, showing the familiar interior of the fleet's facilities.

They cackled at the pranks and idiocy the troops got up to when they thought no one was watching. Had Dok caught the men doing this in person, he would have been far more cross, possibly threatening to incinerate them for their foolish behavior. But behind closed doors with only Max and a bottle of champagne for company, the soldier's antics were amusing. Realizing he’d already drained his second glass, Dok held it out for Max to refill again.

The latest trend among the troops was to catch tarantulas and hide them in unfortunate places. They both snickered, watching a soldier on the feed freeze just as he shoved his foot into his jackboot, only to whip it off and hurl the boot at his, presumably guilty, comrade. The heel of the boot sailed over the prankster’s head, who pointed and laughed at the pissed off soldier until a second boot was chucked, smashing him right in the face. They howled with laughter.

Bubbles threatened to come out of Dok’s nose. Uncrossing his legs, Dok held his sides with an arm and leaned toward the middle of the warm couch for support, trying to stifle his amusement. Max commented on his behavior, but he didn’t catch it right away until the man repeated himself. You’re a lightweight. Dok rolled his eyes and scuffed before realizing that it wasn’t the couch he’d leaned against, but Max’s soft side.

Moving to press his back against the arm of the couch instead, Dok chided it wasn’t his fault that the man was plush enough to be mistaken for a cushion, something he would have never said sober. Max gave a wry smile, golden eyes fixing him with a sideways glance. White-gloved fingers pinched his bare, thin side hard. Dok yelped and jumped, nearly dropping his glass.

More mockery came from Max. You’re the worst doctor, how can you sit there commenting on my weight when you're a glorified skeleton. Dok threw his head back and gave a snorting laugh, causing strange glasses to become askew.

As Dok fumbled and failed to fix his spectacles, he realized the room was starting to spin. Max was right, as usual. He was a lightweight, and it was due to this eating habits, or lack thereof. Dok didn’t apologize as he would normally. No, the alcohol and their seclusion made him bolder. Instead, he stretched long legs and laid them on the other’s lap before settling against the arm of the couch.

And as your physician, Dok reminded the other, my medical opinion has more weight than yours—do as I say, not as I do.

Color flooded Dok’s face when a warm, gloved hand enclosed around his ankle. Max commented on his nerve, before asking what his official medical opinion would be in jest.

Easy, more physical activity, Dok clipped in reply. You spend your day watching toy soldiers parade on screen.

Max’s golden eyes narrowed into unreadable slits at the comment. Dok recoiled for a second, remembering himself and silently questioning if his drunken banter had gone too far. The warm hand slid further up his leg, pushing the hem of his pant leg mid-calf.

Care to demonstrate your treatment? Max pressed. Face burning, Dok felt as though his heart might lodge in his throat at the implication. Teeth thoughtlessly started to bite his index finger. The light from the monitors reflected across Max’s glasses, obscuring his eyes as a sharp, wolfish smile stretched across the round face.

Long legs were pushed off of Max’s lap as the man moved to kneel on the couch. Gloved hands prodded at his bare sides again and Max snidely reminded that he was wasn’t in peak physical condition either. Fingers pulled at suspenders, only to snap them against his bare stomach.

Air hissed through Dok’s teeth at the sudden twinge of pain, and he dropped his glass. Champagne frothed as it spilled onto the floor and was forgotten. Too skinny. Another snap! Too weak. Snap! Snap! Nothing more than office plankton. Twack!

Dok writhed breathlessly with each hit. Escaping the prodding hands was difficult. Dok tried to swat them away, only to have his wrist snagged and pinned to his side by a white-gloved hand for struggling. Max had wedged his wider frame between his legs, forcing the thinner body flat against the arm of the couch. There was no retreat. A thick thigh pressed against the crotch of his pants making Dok’s loins jump and teeth clench.

The Major was fairly strong given the mechanical additions used to save his life. Despite his soft looking physique, Max probably could have snapped his wrist with a sudden twist. Instead, his commander leaned over him and let a wandering hand undo the easy-access zippers down his cropped shirt and the front of his pants. Max snickered, mocking how the unusual attire made him look like a tart working a cabaret stage.

Glasses lost to the couch cushions now, Dok snorted at the remark. Still, a half smile lifted his face as he surrendered and lay languidly beneath the heavier man, and white-gloved fingers let go. My lab, my rules; you never had a problem before, Dok reminded. He was well aware that his attire caught wondering eyes; it was meant to. His back arched off the arm of the couch as he spoke.

His commanders golden’s gaze swept over him in a line from his pelvis, up his taut stomach, to the crest of his ribs. Max gave a feral smile that was usually reserved for desserts, before bending to devour him instead. Lips and tongue grazed down Dok’s chest as the room swam. The warm, wet trail dipped lower and lower before engulfing him for several slow pumps. Dok sunk his teeth deep into his index finger. The moment ended before relief came. Raising his head, Max sat up and mocked his lack of composure with a wide smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes.

Before he could offer a rebuttal to his superior, the sound of another zipper opening came. Dok felt his slick length being pressed against another shorter, wider phallus. His toes curled in his shoes at the heat and pressure as Max’s hand pressed them together. Dok wasn’t certain when the movement began, but they were rocking intimately against one another, using each other for their own satisfaction.

Dok gave an undignified yelp when Max suddenly pushed against him harder. A strong hand grabbed at his thigh and lifted his leg so that his bent knee almost touched his chest. Max was a good deal shorter than him and needed the leverage. The forcefulness of it all made Dok shiver with delight—this was what he craved!  

The power, the claiming weight over him made Dok gasp as his head tipped back. Back arching, strange hands fisted the arm of the couch as he rutted back against his friend and superior.

“Ma-Max,” Dok croaked.

Strange how his voice seemed to cut through the air. This felt too wonderful to be real, but it was. The man’s hands dug into his flesh like talons. Possessive and predatory, Max rutted in time with him and Dok could to little more than moan.

“Wait, wait,” Dok insisted voice oddly loud, grabbing Max’s hand and pressing it against his throat. “ _Please_.”

A sharp, lopsided smile sliced the round face looming over him. Fat fingers happily curled around his throat and squeezed, cutting Dok’s breath off in a sharp gasp. Max could have broken his neck but didn’t. Still, the increasing pressure beneath his larynx was a reminder of the possibility: he was at the Major’s complete mercy now. Shivers raced down Dok’s spine. Just as he offered his talents and expertise, Dok now offered body to his superior and friends to be used, given new purpose, and above all, to please.

“M-max!” Dok cried, and jumped, startled by how loud his voice seemed to echo around the room.

Wait. He shouldn't be able to speak. Breath hitched in Dok’s throat. Suddenly, it occurred to him that during this entire encounter he couldn’t actually recall hearing the Major’s voice aloud once.

_Shit!_

At the realization, the opulent white room wavered like a mirage in the summer heat. Screwing his eyes shut, Dok drew a slow, deep breath.The weight of a chubby body pressing him against a softer surface evaporated.The pressure along on his throat no longer existed.The din of the video feeds drained away.

Dok’s eyes snapped again. He jumped, unnerved to find himself standing.The bright glare of a surgical lamp greeted him, as did the green, mismatching gaze of his patient seated on the gurney in front of him.

This wasn't the Major's room.There were no rows of security monitors lining the wall. He wasn’t lying on the couch being pinned, fondled, and choked. No. Although those things had happened, they were only a memory of his most recent visit with the Major.

Currently, he was standing in the center of a cubical in the clinic. Today was an examination day. He performed them every three months like clockwork on the specialized artificial vampires. And Blitz was becoming increasingly uncooperative about the mandatory procedure. Rigidly, Dok turned away from the woman seated on the gurney, hand coming to hide his burning cheeks.  

"Stop _doing_ that!” Dok snapped, glaring at the half tattooed face.

Mismatching eyes looked at him with brief amusement.

"Doing what?" Zorin asked casually.

She shifted and pulled a pack from her pocket before smoothly removing a cigarette. Ah! The calmness was maddening! Teeth clenched, he turned to face her.

"You _know_ what!” Dok fumed, thrusting a finger at her. “Stop _digging_ around my head!”

"Hey, you made me this way,” Zorin supplied, waving him off a bored flick of her wrist. “All I did was brush your side, and you zoned out.”

“Rifling through a senior officer's memories could be considered espionage,” Dok reminded seriously, lips pursed and finger still raised.

Another shrug. A smirk curled her thin lips.

“Right, uncovered some _real_ top secret information there. If it’s so sensitive, maybe you should watch what you daydream about,” Zorin scuffed. “Anyway, all I know is that _I_ want to hit the gym early. And if I don’t leave now and get the best bench....” she paused, fishing a lighter from her cargo pants. “The rumor mill has a funny way of working ‘round here. I’m sure quite a few onboard have imagined wringing your scrawny neck, wonder what’ll happen if they find out you get off on it.”

"That's—Ah!" Dok found he couldn't come up with a rebuttal, and stared at her with his mouth agape and finger raised. The theatrics went ignored. Zorin started to raise the cigarette to her mouth, intent on smoking. Jaw snapping shut, he slapped the cigarette out of her hand and snarled, "Get. Out. And not a word.”

Zorin clicked her tongue and stood up with lopsided sneer. She’d made him lose his temper, and there was very little he could do about his current embarrassment. Looking quite pleased, she said nothing. After giving a two-finger mock salute, Zorin headed for the door.

Despite her uncooperativeness, Blitz and her mind-bending abilities were some of his best work to date. Unfortunately, she was also well aware of that fact. Although Dok could have threatened, he wasn’t likely to press the button and incinerate such an advanced soldier before their mission was complete, and this she understood too. Really, giving an ex-interrogator the ability to read minds was a great idea in theory, not so much in practice.

Flustered, Dok bit into his index finger again and silently counted to ten. Tasting blood, he relaxed his jaw. Dok grabbed the recorder from the tray and drew a calming breath.

Raising the microphone, he pressed the red button and began flatly, “Examination 256. Subject Blitz continues to display uncooperative behavior utilizing her illusionist abilities, though feigns indifference. As there is little to no physical evidence of her actions and considering her physical and mental strengths, punishment proves difficult to pursue. Physical examination: failure, again. Do not attempt unless necessary. Psychological evaluation warranted,” He paused and released the recording button. Remembering the memories that had overridden his perception only moments before, red dusted his sharp cheekbones. He pressed the button and added into the microphone,  “Subject also holds...sensitive information. Proceed with caution.”

* * *

 

 **Omake**   

Zorin strutted past the doors of the medical clinic and into the hallway, much to the loud disbelief of Jan. She glanced at her comrades who were still waiting to be called for their exam in the clinic: Luke, Jan, and Rip. A smug smile starting to lift her face as Jan’s golden eyes widen first in shock, then anger.

"What the fuck?!” Jan cried. Chair legs screeched as he stood up, gesturing to her with both hands in absolute disbelief. “You were barely in there for 10 minutes!”

"Eight," Zorin corrected, pointing at the clock on the wall before elbowing Luke hard in the shoulder. "Pay up, blondie. Told you I could do it: right in, right out, no problem."

The older brother rolled his eyes. Luke pointedly said nothing as he reached into his inner jacket pocket. Pulling out an expensive pack of cigarettes, Luke handed them to her without sparing a glance, as though the act of losing was beneath him.

"That creepy motherfucker gave me three enemas in a row last time, and she just waltzes the fuck out,” Jan ranted to the room then turned to her, face doing a complete 180-flip. With a wide, shit-eating grin now, he turned to Zorin with a pleading look and called out, “Heeeey, gurl~.”

Jan sauntered up and looped an arm around her muscled shoulders. Zorin spared him a sideways glance, before focusing on her prize. Removing a cigarette perfectly rolled in black paper and adorned a gold leaf filter, she held it under her nose and inhaled deeply. Ah, good shit. Grade A tobacco. While Luke may have had a giant stick up his ass, the man had excellent taste.

“Let a man on the inside and tell me how you fucking weaseled outta there so fast. I’ll make it worth ya while,” Jan proposed, grin widening and eyebrows waggling.

Brow arching in return, Zorin just gave him another sideways look and put the cigarette between her teeth.

"Swing and a miss, scrawny. I'm the best, that’s all there is to it," Zorin scuffed, flexing and pushing his arm off her shoulders. Jan’s jaw went slack before he sneered in disgust, realizing she wasn’t going to tell him anything useful. "Real ϋbermensch material right here. "

Zorin stretched her arms downward and flexed again, showing off the cords of muscles.

“Whatever, fucking dyke,” Jan sniffed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Swearing under his breath, Jan huffed and flopped down in the chair beside his brother. Zorin ignored him, and sent a wink Rip's way, who rolled her eyes at the interaction but couldn't fight the tale-tail pink blush dusting freckled cheeks.

Still got. Zorin smirked, lit her prize and savored it so Luke could watch.

"Later, losers," Zorin said dismissively and turned on her heel and headed off down the hall.


End file.
